she wanted to go inside
and sob
selfishly,
because the possibility
of an aberrantly painless holyday
passed with the dead black squirrel

she wanted to go inside
to tell someone
but the only one
was a woman – good, but profoundly unwise
and living individually in the moment
dis-understanding
in the least way
every single day

she wanted to go inside
and forget
but death was also present there
old, not fresh, also unnatural
the stench of a potful of bones, flesh and fat
boiling on the stove
a pig or two’s rib cage
in her favorite cauldron
the one she’d used only for vegetables